


every turn will be safe with me

by giucorreias



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Quidditch, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-03-22 06:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13758687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giucorreias/pseuds/giucorreias
Summary: Now that he had escaped the clutches of his home country, Yuri was going to conquer the World.





	1. the off-season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KirjavaCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KirjavaCat/gifts).



> This was supposed to be a birthday gift to my friend Nicole. Her birthday is in November. Yes. It's been taking such a long time for me to write this thing that I decided to post the chapter I already have done and post the others as I finish them.
> 
> Anyway, a few notes: I hate what J. K. Rowling does to the world of Harry Potter in which she takes a random country, then goes to google translator and types "magic castle" or related words, then rolls some dice to decide which quirk the school is going to have. Which is why I decided to ignore the existence of Koldovstoretz and the fact they go around flying with trees instead of brooms (????) and decided to create the Red Krepost instead (:

If there was a thing Yuri hated deeply, even more so than he hated apparating or _people_ , in general, was using portkeys. They always made him feel queasy—and not feeling his best was also very much on the List Of Things Yuri Hates. He’d much rather use a plane, but that was hardly ever an option. Wizards were allergic to all things muggle (and when they weren’t, they insisted they created the thing, disregarding a whole lot of historical evidence that proved otherwise).

Yuri debated mentally whether he wanted to make a good first impression on his new coach, but the mental discussion was fairly short-lived. He was extremely talented and, now, famous enough that people had to deal with his moods when he wasn’t feeling particularly agreeable. With his stomach churning, his sleepless night, and his only family member currently miles away, he wasn’t all that willing to put up a front.

He took a deep breath, tied his hair on a ponytail, adjusted the strap of his backpack (got angry at himself for being needlessly nervous), and started moving towards Celestino Cialdini, coach of the Puddlemere United and, now, the man responsible for his new team.

Yuri noticed the colorful robes, the carefree posture, the cheerful smile, and suddenly realized he was going to miss Yakov’s stern presence and professional attitude. They hadn’t worked together for very long, only a year or so, after he left the Krepost, but if he had reached a point where he could pour over several different contracts and choose the team with the best offer, it was all due to Yakov’s strict training schedule and careful planning.

“Mr. Plisetsky,” Celestino said, offering his hand and a nod of his head.

“Yuri is fine,” he answered. He was only eighteen: being called mister made him feel old. Besides, Mr. Plisetsky was how people called his grandfather—Yuri already felt his absence keenly, even though they had seen each other mere hours before, and didn’t need any extra reminders of the fact he wasn’t there.

“This might be a problem,” Celestino said, an amused smile on his lips. Yuri frowned.

“Why?”

“We have another Yuri on the team.”

He knew who he was talking about, of course—it was hard not to, after Victor Nikiforov, the bastard, took a personal interest on the man’s career and turned the snivelling piglet into something akin to a star over little more than a season.

It still stung.

But Yuri should have known better than to trust the ephemeral whims of a pureblood heir. Especially a _Nikiforov_. The resulting disappointment was his own fault.

It wasn’t important, though. After Victor left Russia to run after the piglet, he left a void that Yuri gladly filled—guiltlessly. Victor’s absence led Yuri to the spotlight, so he took advantage of that. Yuri was man enough to admit that Victor was a better player than he was, but that was it. In all of Russia, Yuri was _second_ —and if he had anything to say about that, not for very much longer.

Now that he had escaped the clutches of his home country, Yuri was going to _conquer the_ _World_.

 

* * *

 

Since the off-season had just started, most of the team was not currently at London. In fact, Celestino had told him that no one had expected him so early on. Yuri knew all of that, of course. He also knew that, out of everyone on the team, he was the only not to have any foreign experience.

After all, Yuri had only ever played in local Russian teams: six years with the Krepost’s team, and then one season with the Omsk Quidditch Club. So, even though it fucking hurt to leave his grandfather behind on his shitty country, he needed all the time he could get to familiarize himself with the foreign climate and get himself up to a level where he could compete with his teammates.

One miscalculated quaffle could be what made his team lose. One wrong turn of his broom could mean an ugly injury that got himself out of the match. One misguided move meant Victor would still be Russia’s star, and he couldn’t—wouldn’t—have that.

So when Celestino showed him the flat he’d be in, he only listened enough to know the important bits—magical neighborhood, teammates close by, player discount—and not half an hour later he was already with his broom in hands and his quidditch gear neatly folded inside the backpack he had used a spell to make bigger on the inside.

 

* * *

  

The pitch was breathtaking—and Yuri was awed. Not that anyone could reach that conclusion by looking at him, since his resting face was always a frown.

Yet, it was still true.

Yuri hadn’t felt like that ever since he first laid eyes on the Red Krepost, the imposing fortress built in red brick and infused with so much magic that she developed a personality of her own, the one that housed a self-sustaining magical village and, most importantly, the school he had studied at.

He could almost feel the thrumming of the shield magic under his fingers again, the vibration on his teeth, the feeling of absolute safety in knowing that if everything and everyone else failed him, _at least_ the Krepost would keep him safe.

She had always been fiercely protective of what was hers.

If he were anyone else, he would perhaps have become a professor, a quidditch coach, a simple inhabitant inside her thick walls, shoulders hunched under the weight of being who he was—half-blood, abandoned—and no knowledge of what it felt like to be on the edge of the precipice and choose to jump, of how addicting it was to be _good_ at _winning_.

But he was no one if not _Yuri Plisetsky._  He walked with his head held high.

She had understood that he needed to fly on his own even before he did.

Yuri allowed himself a whole minute to marvel at the absolute beauty of where he was—the size of the pitch, the gleam of the bleachers—, and then another to picture it so full of people watching him play that he could no longer see the blue, before shaking his head to get rid of the sentimentality and ordering his broom to take him up, up, high, higher.

He had training to do.

 

* * *

  

It was a testament to his single-minded focus that he didn’t notice he was being watched until he got down, all sweat and adrenaline, red cheeks and heavy breathing.

It was a testament to his fatigue that he didn’t immediately recognize that the man was one of his teammates: Otabek Altin. Not one of the star players—that was reserved to Victor, Yuuri, and even JJ—but one of those you could always count on to have a decent season. Plus something none of the articles about him had ever written about: he had the deepest brown eyes Yuri had ever seen.

When his teammate noticed he was being watched, instead of going over and talking to Yuri, like he had been almost sure it was going to happen, the man nodded almost imperceptibly—then left.

Yuri forced himself not to let relief show on his face.

 

* * *

  

“It’s not safe to apparate when you’re tired,” a deep voice said somewhere behind him, and Yuri was startled. He turned to regard its owner, the ever-present frown on his face, and was surprised to see his teammate.

Yuri had taken his time when sorting his gear—he had thought the man would have probably already gone back home.

“Wasn’t planning to,” he answered, curt. Then, because he didn’t really want to antagonize him, waved some muggle money as a way of explanation. “I was thinking I could take the tube home. I noticed there’s a station not very far from our neighborhood.”

“I see.” There was a long minute of awkward silence. Sighing, Yuri adjusted the strap of his backpack, and started moving.

“I’ll see you around, I suppose.”

“Goodnight, Yuri.”

 

* * *

 

 It was only after he had already been home for an hour, getting ready to sleep, that he realized he had never given Otabek his name.

Well, he _was_ Russia’s second best player.

He supposed people should know his name.

 

* * *

  

The next morning saw Yuri getting ready to train considerably early, tired and miserable. It was barely his first day and he already missed home keenly.

The new house was comfortable, of course, but it was also unlived, with its empty walls and the lack of small details. He had already spread some pictures of himself and his grandpa—all but one of the motionless kind—and in a way they made it worse.

“Maybe I should get a cat,” he mused, making himself a cup of coffee.

He didn’t use magic to make it, partly because he was used to doing it the muggle way, partly because he thought it tasted better. He leaned against the kitchen counter, a steaming mug on his hand, and stared at the endlessly grey sky. He wished it were a sunny day—perhaps then he’d be in a better mood.

Yuri let himself savor his cup slowly. The advantage of being one of the only people around in the off-season was that he could take his time and the pitch would still be blessedly empty once he arrived, no matter what time.

He sent one last wistful look at the pictures before taking his things and leaving the house, only to stumble upon his teammate on the corridor, himself a perfect mirror of Yuri: bleary-eyed and ready to train. Yuri nodded hello, politely, before falling into step beside him.

He didn’t realize there was something fundamentally weird until Otabek was boarding the tube alongside him, and even then it took him a full minute before he could point his finger at what it was:

“Where’s your motorbike?”

“Shrank it.” Otabek shrugged, adjusting the strap of his bag self-consciously. Yuri looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“Why?”

Otabek was silent for a long time. Then: “I get to see… people. And it’s healthier to walk some of the way than it is to apparate or drive all the way to the pitch. You know.”

Yuri didn’t say that the reason he did it was _completely_ different—he didn’t say it was half defiance, half comfort. Instead, he hummed noncommittally. _Healthy_. He could go with that.

The tube eventually stopped and they both left with the flow of people, dozens of muggles going about their days, ignorant as ever of the magic that existed in the world.

Yuri slowed his steps, unsure of the way outside the station, and let Otabek lead. They weren’t in a hurry, particularly, and he felt good about their walk: the streets leading to the pitch were not particularly busy, which was nice because he hated crowds. Plus, unlike many people, Otabek didn’t feel the need to fill their silence with mindless chatter—another thing he hated.

Yuri had a very long list.

 

* * *

  

Later, when they were both sweaty and gross, tired after a whole day of training, Yuri let himself sit beside Otabek on the metal bench inside their locker room. His face was cold from the wind and he was feeling sore, but it was nothing he wasn’t used to.

He stretched, languidly.

“So,” Otabek started, but didn’t say anything else after that. Yuri turned to look at him, a raised eyebrow as a silent question. “Won’t you take a leisure day to sightsee?” he continued, then. “I understand it’s your first time outside Russia.”

“No,” he answered, getting up and sorting his training gear. “I don’t have time for leisure days. I need to train.”

Yuri braced himself for a comment on how he could do both, but the comment never came. When he raised his head to look at his teammate, Otabek was watching him with a weird look on his face. Yuri offered him a half-smile, and Otabek answered with a smirk of his own.

“I’ve always liked that about you,” he said finally. Yuri frowned at him, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“My parents had just died and there was no one left to homeschool me. I was sent to the Red Krepost for the year.”

“I don’t remember you,” Yuri said. Not that he would: Yuri would be the first to admit that he cared about nothing but quidditch during his school years. When he wasn’t studying, he was flying. He wouldn’t have had the time to care about newcomers.

“I didn’t manage to enter the team, there were already too many players, but I remember…” he stopped. Looked at Yuri, deep brown eyes shining bright. “You were short and defiant, training with a second-handed broom even in the harsh winter, all alone. I watched you and I thought ‘Yuri Plisetsky has the unforgettable eyes of a soldier.’”

Otabek got silent and Yuri didn’t say anything, either. He didn’t know what to say. No one had ever described him like that. Eyes of a _soldier_. He found that he liked it.

“When the year ended,” Otabek continued. “I managed to get myself transferred. Durmstrang. They had a quidditch program that was easier to get into. And I wanted to play.”

“I made a bet.” Yuri found his voice, but it sounded—weird. He kept speaking regardless. “With Victor. He was the team captain, at the time. I told him that if I could beat him one-on-one by the end of the year he had to let me into the team.”

He didn’t manage to, in the end. He did his best, but it was not good enough. He could remember feeling defeated, afloat. How his eyes burned with the need to cry. Victor, holding his shoulders and telling him he had never expected Yuri to win, but that he hadn’t expected him to do so well either. That he saw a great deal of _potential_.

During their subsequent holidays, Victor trained Yuri: strict, harsh, demanding. The next year, he gave him the spot he had wanted on the team. Victor made a promise, too, to see that Yuri went professional. Then he finished school—and promptly left Russia behind.

Yuri had to climb the steps himself, abandoned once again, holding on to the tatters of yet another broken promise.

But he was used to that, too.

“If you’re not planning to go sightseeing,” Yuri was pulled out of his head by his teammate, that had already finished sorting his own gear and seemed ready to leave. Yuri felt the low burn of shame for letting his thoughts get the better of him on his tongue and swallowed it, nodding to show he was listening. “I could show you this coffee shop we all go to. They have a special section for magical clients, and the best tea you’ll find on the city.”

“I-” Yuri thought about denying. He was tired and sore and he wanted to sleep. But then he thought about his empty apartment, and how he really didn’t want to go home yet. So he said yes.

 

* * *

 

 The coffee shop was surprisingly normal. Yuri had expected it to be flashier, perhaps indicate there was a space for the magical public somehow, but even its name was completely muggle: Donna’s Cafe. The barista—a red-haired, middle-aged woman, dressed with muggle clothes—waved at Otabek as they entered.

Otabek lead him all the way to the back—and then straight through a blue door _painted_ on the brick wall.

“What-” Yuri started to ask, but before he could finish they were already on the other side. He blinked a few times, surprised.

“I know,” Otabek said, amusement clear on his voice. “You’ll notice the British like these kinds of things. I heard they have to go through the walls of the King’s Cross to get into the Hogwarts Express.”

Yuri shrugged, and then followed Otabek to one of the tables, his eyes darting around. This part of the coffee shop was a lot more like he had expected: moving paintings on the walls, floating candles next to the roof, house elves serving drinks.

“I like it,” he decided at last. Despite the fact that it was nothing like one of the coffee shops he’d find in Russia, it still reminded him of Home. His mind went back to his grandpa: the old, black beret, the wooly jumper, the smell of piroshki from the kitchen.

“You went sad all of a sudden.” Otabek’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Yuri did not let himself startle.

“I’m not sad,” Yuri answered, voice hard. Then, because he had decided he liked Otabek and didn’t want to alienate him just yet, he completed with: “It’s just silly. I miss my grandfather, and it hasn’t even been a full week.”

“It’s not silly.” Otabek shaked his head. His face was neutral, but his voice sounded sad. Wistful, maybe. “If my parents were still alive, I think I’d call them every day.”

Yuri shrugged again, trying not to let it show he was feeling uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was going to and failing miserably.

“What would you say is the best option on the menu?” he asked, trying to get back into safer ground. He hoped it wouldn’t make Otabek think he was disregarding his feelings—Yuri was simply really bad at them.

“I don’t know,” Otabek answered, looking equal parts thoughtful and amused. “Do you like rosemary tea?”

Yuri let himself look around just to avoid looking at him.

 

* * *

 

After that, Yuri fell into an easy routine—so easy that he barely even noticed the weeks go away, blurred together.

Every day, he’d call his grandfather. They’d talk about the weather in Russia, Yuri’s plans for the future, English food—virtually anything. Then Yuri would eat something, clean his house, organize his things. Afterwards, he’d spend his whole day on the pitch, training.

Sometimes, Otabek would join him—and those times were surprisingly fun. Yuri didn’t particularly consider Quidditch something fun. In the past, perhaps, it had been. At some point, it had become a chore. Nowadays, it was simply a means to an end.

Victor’s arrival from Japan signaled the end of the off-season—and his presence the end of whichever enjoyment Yuri had been taking from his training and Otabek’s quiet presence. It wasn’t at all unexpected: Victor was a constant reminder of every betrayal Yuri had ever been put through.

It might have been fine if Yuri had been able to avoid him, or pretend he didn’t exist. He had been prepared for that—after all, he wouldn’t have let himself choose this team if he didn’t think he could deal with Victor on a daily basis. But he had planned for Victor to ignore his existence, and was prepared to return the favor.

That was not what happened.


	2. the preseason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team comes back, and Victor is the same as always. Otabek... helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took everything out of me and I am dead. Regardless, I'm glad to have finished it and I quite like the result, so here it is~

“Yuri!” someone called. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was, as he’d recognize that voice anywhere. He had heard it almost everyday for more than four years, once upon a time. Still, Yuri didn’t let himself react to it—he couldn’t give Victor the satisfaction of making him angry. Indifference was always more hurtful.

So Yuri kept walking forwards, steps getting quicker, until he stood before the safety of his own apartment’s door.

He opened it and entered without looking back.

Once inside, he threw himself at his couch, landing with his head against the cushions. He groaned, trying to force his mind into not thinking about his school years.

It didn’t really work: the more he tried to take his mind off of it, the more it stubbornly kept going back—he remembered how they’d train well into the winter, magic the only thing keeping them warm. How they’d sit down on his bedroom’s floor, a plate of cookies between them, discussing strategies and the team’s weak points. How they’d fly together, broom beside broom, analyzing each other’s play style and how best to counter it.

It was bitter, to have that many good memories attached to someone like Victor.

 

* * *

 

 There were three knocks on his door.  Yuri groaned.

“Go away, Nikiforov,” he said, his voice muffled by the couch. After a minute or so of silence, there were knocks again.

Yuri scowled before he got up.

“Look, I don’t want to- Oh!” Yuri felt his scowl morph into a smile. “It’s you.”

“It’s me.”

“I thought it was Victor,” Yuri said, somewhat apologetic. “He can be incredibly annoying, you know?”

“Not really,” Otabek shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve ever talked to him outside of training. I know he’s a great captain, though.”

“Huh.” That surprised Yuri, though he didn’t show it. He had assumed Otabek was a friendly person—he had to be, to have made the effort to befriend him. Yuri was not an easy person, after all. And Victor was. Easy, that is. To be friends with. He was- “Come inside,” Yuri interrupted his own thought, and his voice was perhaps a bit too loud. “I’ll- make us some tea.”

Otabek smiled at him. Yuri smiled back, and then moved to the kitchen. He put the kettle on, and then sat down on the counter. Otabek leaned on the door frame, arms crossed. Beside his face, the mini-Otabek on the picture they had taken earlier that month did the same.

“So, what’s up?”

“The team tried to invite me out- I told them I already had plans,” he shrugged again. “I’m in hiding.”

Yuri gave himself a minute to shift the mental picture he had of Otabek.

“I always assumed you were an extrovert.”

“Not at all,” Otabek snorted. “There are very few people I can put up with- even fewer that I actually like.”

“Oh,” Yuri busied himself with the kettle, trying to hide he was feeling- warmed and resolutely ignoring the reddening of his cheeks. “Then why-” Yuri stopped himself from asking the question, afraid to sound needy.

“Why…?”

“Nevermind that,” he said. Composing himself, he turned back and handed Otabek a steaming mug of tea, then moved onto the living room—turning his mind upside down in search of something to say.

He sat on the sofa, and after Otabek sat himself comfortably, he rested his feet on his friend’s lap. Otabek smiled at him, soft and happy, and Yuri felt his heart leap.

He resolutely ignored that, too.

 

* * *

  

For the first time since he had arrived in England, Yuri found he didn’t really want to go to training. The offseason had been perfect, _unbelievably so_ , and he feared that now that he’d be forced to deal with the rest of the team, the spell would be broken, and quidditch would go back to feeling like before: an obligation.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong: waking up that day didn’t feel like every other day before and, somehow—maybe because of that—he just _knew_ : he was going to have a terrible day. (week. _season)_.

Of course, if his only problem had been the way he woke up feeling, then he’d have no problem at all—Yuri was used to ignoring his own feelings and moving on, a skill he developed when his mother first left him behind—, but the call to his grandfather didn’t connect on his first try, or his second, or his third, and by the time he _had_ to leave or be _really_ late, he _still_ hadn’t managed to get a hold of him.

On the way to the pitch, he didn’t meet Otabek—which wasn’t unexpected, as Yuri was late—and by the time he reached the training grounds, face morphed into a furious scowl, everyone else was already there. Ready. Waiting.

“Good morning, Yuri,” Celestino said, smiling serenely, and Yuri was suddenly very sure he was being judged under a mask of fake cheerfulness. He missed Yakov. He’d much rather hear his old coach’s stern words about his lateness than waste the day wondering about his new coach’s thoughts on it.

At least Celestino didn’t insist he talk about himself to the team and be the center of attention— _much_.

“Now that we’re all here, let’s start with the drills. Plisetski,” he called, moving on to a more serious tone and face. “You’re with Victor and Katsuki. We’ll work on the drills, today, and they can explain it to you.”

Yuri sighed.

 

* * *

 

Training with Victor was as familiar as talking to his grandfather in the mornings, as natural as the Russian rolling out of his tongue. Somehow, that made his day _worse_ —not the fact that he wasn’t familiar with the drills and had to learn some from the very beginning, and not the fact that he was still not entirely used to the way the British did quidditch: but the fact that he couldn’t pretend Victor was someone else entirely, that he had never left him behind to fend for himself on the shark tank that was russian society.

Every time Yuri predicted a piece of criticism, or understood what he meant without him having to explain himself; every pass he made that Victor managed to catch easily, or every catch he made without an effort—it all made it clear to anyone watching just how much they were used to each other’s play style.

 

* * *

  

By the time the end of the training rolled around, Yuri was absolutely fuming. The fake bastard kept smiling at him and mentioning how he’d grown on the time he’d been away, as if he had never promised him anything! As if leaving him behind had been nothing! As if they were still the friends they used to be, in the past!

It just- it made him so very _angry_.

And his anger—unlike his sadness, or happiness, or fondness—his anger was _very_ obvious. To everyone who could see his face. To everyone except, perhaps, the sniveling piglet.

“Yuri! Hey, wait up!” Yuuri called, Japanese accent gliding through the syllables. Yuri didn’t slow his steps, and instead kept going towards the locker rooms. It didn’t deter the other man: Yuuri jogged towards him, long strides and heavy breathing, then stopped him with a hand to the shoulder.

Yuri considered not stopping, for a second, but he remembered simultaneously both Yakov’s barked order, right before he left Russia (“Don’t antagonize your teammates, boy!”) and his grandfather’s soft whisper against his hair, when they last hugged (“It worries me that you’ll be all alone and so far away”); so he did. He stopped.

Which didn’t mean he had to be pleasant. It had been the piglet’s choice to pursue his company, after all, when he was so obviously in a bad mood.

“What,” he said, not entirely a question.

“Well, hi- It’s nice to finally meet you.” The piglet offered him a shy smile and scratched his head sheepishly, and Yuri controlled the urge to roll his eyes by crossing his own arms instead. Any other person would probably offer him an encouraging smile, but not Yuri—the last thing he wanted was to encourage Victor’s sidekick to be friendly. “It’s just- Victor’s told me a lot about you, and I wanted to say you’re really as talented as he told us you were.”

Yuri ruthlessly quenched the warm feeling that threatened to grow on his chest.

“Yeah, right,” he said immediately only because he didn’t want to seem speechless—which he was. Then he was angry, again. Angrier. Who did Victor think he was, to leave without notice, cut his ties, then tell his fat boyfriend that he was _talented_?

He was talented, alright. He was the second best quidditch Russian player, out of countless witches and wizards to mount a broom, and though much of it he owed it to Victor, much more of it was due to his hard work and diligence, the countless days he spent training instead of dating, or playing, or reading, or studying.

Victor had _no right_ -

Yuri took a deep breath. A deep, deep breath, so as to avoid saying what was on his mind. _Don’t antagonize your teammates, boy!_

“I don’t care about Victor’s opinion,” he said at last. He was going to stop there, but the words kept bleeding out. “I don’t care about his approval- or yours. I only care about playing well. Have a good day.”

He stomped away.

 

* * *

 

 “He just makes me _so angry_!” Yuri told Otabek, relaxing his fingers on his paper cup so as not to leave a mark—a bit too late.

They were at the same coffee shop Otabek had shown him when they had first met, a place that had quickly become one of his to-go venues to de-stress. The place reminded him of home and his grandfather, but that wasn’t the only reason why he liked it: Donna, the owner, was a muggle married to a pure-blood, and they both had a beautiful red-haired toddler which the father seemed to love helplessly and that Yuri loved to watch play around the customers legs, certain of her father’s love.

Yuri didn’t let himself wonder—if his mother had been a better human being, then perhaps- No. He didn’t let himself wonder.

“Well,” Otabek answered, calloused fingers wrapped around his tea mug, face flushed because of the steam. “If it helps, I think you have reason. I’d be angry, too. And I don’t know if I’d be able to play on the same team, like you do. Specially so close together.”

“It’s not playing together that’s the problem,” Yuri lied. To himself, mostly. “It’s-” Yuri moved his hand around, searching for the words. Otabek looked at him, just looked. Big, attentive eyes, silent understanding. Yuri was suddenly so glad to have him that he felt his eyes burn with the desire to cry. “Everything else,” he completed, voice small. Then he coughed, sipped his coffee, pretended nothing was happening at all. “Our first game is approaching,” he traded subjects.

“It’s just a friendly,” Otabek shrugged. “And it’s against the Harpies. It’ll be easy. Their line-up is not as good as it could be, with their main player being on maternity leave, and our offense is unbeatable. You, Yuuri, and Victor. It couldn’t get any better.”

“You forget I’ve just now started training with the whole team.”

Otabek smiled. Soft, private.

“I have every faith on you.”

Yuri smiled back.

 

* * *

 

 “I was just telling Otabek about that, grandpa-” Yuri started saying, puttering around his apartment so as to have something to do with his hands, phone floating beside his ear. His grandfather hummed, obviously amused about something, and Yuri stopped himself. “What is it?”

“Nothing, nothing, my boy.”

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me, grandpa!” Yuri let annoyance bleed into his voice, but his grandfather just chuckled.

“I’m just glad you found a friend,” he said, then, voice low and soft, relieved. “I was afraid you’d be alone.”

“I wouldn’t be alone, grandpa. I’d have you.”

“Always, Yuri. But I’m miles away. And even with all the _magic things_ ,” Yuri could almost picture his grandfather moving his hands dismissively. “It’s really hard to visit, with your training. And talking over the phone isn’t the same.”

“I’d have my teammates, anyway.”

“It’s not the same at all. Sometimes it’s possible to be among people and still be alone. Specially since Victor-” Yuri scoffed, and his grandfather trailed off. There was a moment of silence, in which Yuri could almost see his grandfather’s frown. Then there was a sigh, and he said: “You were telling me about Otabek?”

“The friendly, actually. It’s the day after tomorrow.”

“Your first game outside Russia. Are you nervous?”

“No,” Yuri lied. “No, grandpa, not at all.”

 

* * *

 

The day dawned like any other, except Yuri wasn’t at his apartment. They had traveled via portkey the day before, as the game was supposed to happen on the Harpies of Holyhead’s home pitch. Yuri had been thankful—blinking in and out of existence always made him feel a bit weird, on the stomach.

The piglet had been a nervous wreck. All trembling hands and pale skin, big wet eyes. Victor had wasted hours calming him down instead of training, voice soft, and Yuri had barely recognized him at all. No harsh words, no “pull yourself together”, no “the game depends on you being in control, don’t fuck it up”.

It made Yuri angry. Not that Victor coddled the piglet—that was actually disgusting, in a way—, but that the piglet needed to be coddled. It wasn’t _professional._  Yuri kept thinking that that was the man Victor had invested his time on, that was the man everybody rooted for. It was, frankly, pathetic.

Yuri hated pathetic.

Victor used to, once upon a time.

Apparently he had changed.

 

* * *

 

 “Are you ok?” Otabek asked, sitting beside him. He looked serene, despite being so close to the game, and Yuri envied him. He wasn’t a nervous wreck, not like the piglet, but he wasn’t calm, either. It was his first game with the team, his first game outside Russia. Eyes would be looking at him, and he had to play flawlessly.

“Are _you_ ok?” Yuri sent the question back, unwilling to answer just yet.

“It’s just a friendly,” Otabek shrugged. “We’ll be fine. And if we don’t, then we’ll make up for it later. There’s no point in worrying, so I don’t.”

“I wish I could feel like that.” He started playing with Otabek’s hair before he noticed what he was doing, but Otabek didn’t say anything, so Yuri didn’t stop. “But my mind keeps going to worst case scenarios.”

“I wish you could see yourself playing the way I do,” Otabek murmured. “Then you wouldn’t be worried at all.”

Yuri was sure he was blushing, then, and forced himself to look away so Otabek didn’t see it happen.

“You put too much faith on me.”

“Someone has to,” he shrugged again, nonchalantly, and Yuri forced the warm feelings away.

 

* * *

 

 Right before he mounted on his broom, a hand stopped him. Yuri turned back, and there was Otabek.

“Hey,” he said, low. Everyone else was already going up to the air. “ _Davai_.”

The whistle sounded, then, too high, too piercing, but Yuri was ready.

 

* * *

 

They won, Yuri’s goal breaking the tie—It was glorious.

**Author's Note:**

> you can come talk to me on my [tumblr](http://giucorreias.tumblr.com/)~


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